C
HAPTER
2
W
hat was one of their Revolutionaries doing in Geneva, Switzerland? And why was he dead? Fallen Angels were nearly impossible to kill.
Maxwell Diablo studied the work report on his desk as though it held the secrets of the Despot Above. As was suitable for what outsiders called Hell, the report was typeset on faded green-bar paper. The ribbon in their only daisy-wheel printer, a Diablo 630, needed replacing.
It had needed replacing for the last thirty years.
Maxwell adjusted his off-balance reading glasses and leaned over the eye-straining document.
As Lucifer's second in command, Maxwell rated his own officeâwith a window, thank you very muchâin the massive airport complex that made up Headquarters. Two blank gray cubicle walls hemmed him in against the stairs. The ever-present stench of cheap new carpet and the rattling fluorescent lights guaranteed success in every endeavor.
He stood up from his desk, holding the paper in one hand. Leaning against the window with his other hand, Maxwell studied the walkways, concourses, and angel movers that sent his agents on their missions.
With long practice, Maxwell suppressed the knowledge that their missions were always a bust. No matter how they planned, schemed, and tormented, the insurrection simply did not spread. There was too much good in the world. All of Lucifer's schemes to lure more angels and mortals to this airport to nowhere failed miserably.
The purpose of the Rebellion had been to expand all beings' horizons, and create chances for new experiences. No one could have foreseen that instead of wild new frontiers, the radicals found themselves in this beige, out-of-date, stuffy airport that had no airplanes, no waiting areas, no bathrooms, and only one exit.
Maxwell curled his toes in his cheap burgundy penny loafers. The unforgiving faux leather pinched his feet and his ill-fitting khakis sat like barbed wire under his testicles. His physical discomfort was nothing compared to his boiling emotions.
That exit pressed hard on everyone's mind, including his, and had since last November. Once the news broke that Lance Soleil ascended, the number of attempts on the exit had skyrocketed. Curious, Maxwell rolled down his sleeves, buttoned his cuffs, and put on his shiny, navy suit jacket. Just how many of them had succeeded in escaping their torment without end?
Maxwell had designed this place eons ago. First it had been a way house at a crossroads that led nowhere. As the humans became more sophisticated, Headquarters reflected their best achievements of technology. His favorite design had been when HQ was a derelict Roman bath. No matter what, though, reaching the sole way out remained a challenge in itself.
First, Maxwell had guaranteed that finding the damned thing would discourage the seekers. It was in the airport's basement, a dank and depressing place with rusted, leaking pipes and Asbestos floated through the air. As one neared the door, a confusing and thorn-laced labyrinth of dead plants, outdated office furniture, and boxes of unfiled paperwork lay in wait. Only a contortionist could safely navigate the booby-trapped room.
Or Maxwell himself. Not even Lucifer knew the secrets of the basement exit. Confident in his intelligence, Maxwell launched himself headlong into the winding deer paths between the dangerous cliffs of paraphernalia.
The second his foot landed on the cracked, dirty cement floor, a swell of heavy, mildewed math textbooks lost their precarious hold on a flimsy metal shelf. The sharp corners plowed into his head. The crash echoed around the basement. Down he went under their spore-laden weight. Plumes of dust puffed into the air and silently settled on his fallen body.
Maxwell flushed with fury and embarrassment and allergies. Sneezing and itching, he somehow worked his way from underneath and balanced on the ever-shifting stack. The mold swelled Maxwell's eyes and nose until he couldn't see or breathe. Virulent, raw, red welts rose on his skin under the attack of his scratching fingernails.
No one had managed to reach the exit.
Once showered and slathered with expired calamine lotion, he returned to his office and again took up the offending report.
When a Rebel was killed on Earth, they turned to ash, just like their paranormal friends. Unlike the paranormal creatures, they returned to HQ, unchanged and ready to be reassigned. The only way out was the exit to the Wheel.
Once they closed the exit door behind themselves, their essence was given a chance to ride the Wheel as a mortal to redemption. That was the clause the Tyrant Above had given them.
The Second tapped the report against his thigh. Nathaniel, the poor, stupid fool, who had been sent on the mission to kill Valerie Tate's baby, showed Maxwell an unexpected way out.
Maxwell was off to get himself killed.
Whoa, there, Tex. He enjoyed the power his position gave him. Propelling his rolling office chair to his window, he surveyed his domain. How could he give all this up?
The scratched glass cooled his forehead. Give up all this power over a nonfunctioning bureaucracy packed tight like a bait box with helpless worms?
Yeah, right, the Second pulled some serious power. Yeehaa. Disgust at what he had become curdled his lungs. Once he'd had balls of steel. Somehow in the past, the seduction of red tape had drained him.
“Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant,”
he said, and pulled the old-fashioned speaking tube toward himself. Once he was proud of the knowledge that only he had the First's office number. Today, it had become yet another mold-filled trap to prevent him from achieving his goal. Now was the time to dismantle everything.
Maxwell straightened his clip-on tie before Lucifer's laughable face appeared on the phosphorescent green screen. Yes, the Father of Lies bore a striking resemblance to a certain red-haired, freckled cowboy marionette of the 1950s. What was his name? Hammy-Whammy? Whatever.
Get on with it
, he told himself.
“In the words of modern youth, Nathaniel was an epic fail,” Maxwell reported without preamble. “He failed to retrieve the unborn angel. He failed to bring Dracula back to us, either as dust or as our old ally again. Now she's on the run and headed straight toward the Guide. We can't touch her.”
Lucifer stroked his unshaven chin. Unfortunately, his coloring managed to make his stubble look as though his face was smeared with cheap ketchup. Maxwell managed to keep his face calm and undisturbed as they waited for a garbled, unintelligible announcement on the airport's PA system to end.
“And Nathaniel's epic fail was . . . ?” Lucifer verbally nudged Maxwell.
“She shot him and flushed him down the toilet.”
“Whatta woman.” Lucifer's sarcasm didn't disguise his admiration. Ice clinked through the speaking tube as Lucifer drank his ginger ale. “The mission was more of a success than you might think.” Lucifer held up his scabbed, hairy hands and counted his points on his finger. “We now know the vampire has expanded powers. She wants to keep the baby and is still stuck on Soleil. In addition, she knows where the Guide is. Once the pregnant woman is with the Guide, we will be able to get our hands on that fetus as well as Janté.”
Maxwell bit his smile in half. Lucifer had given him the perfect setup. “This is a very delicate procedure, First Revolutionary. I volunteer to handle this myself. We cannot let the despot get its controlling mitts on what will be born.”
Lucifer rested his fingertips against each other and flexed his hands a few times. “I don't know if I wish to risk you.”
Maxwell ignored Lucifer. “I also know that Vlad's brother, Radu, has dropped off the map. He is in dog form and moving east.”
“I did not know that.” Lucifer frowned. The result was disturbingly clownlike.
Under the desk, Maxwell clenched his fist in victory. Just like Sejanus, the leader of Roman emperor Tiberius' Praetorian Guard, Maxwell had been undercutting Lucifer's authority for years. Before, he had wanted to use his scheming to overthrow Lucifer. It would be exciting to use his position to take an unexpected way out.
Attempting to regain control, Lucifer took another drink from his glass. “Anything else you want to report?”
“Yes.” Let's see how the First handled this news. “More and more of our members are trying the exit.”
The Morning Star shook his head, but his pointy face remained undisturbed. Red hair fell over his buggy green eyes.
“Maxwell, my old friend. Even if they make it out, they will come back before they make it. Remember how stiff things used to be?”
Maxwell cursed inside at his opponent's smooth reminder of their far past. It had been limiting. What kind of Creator imagined the power of the Host, and then set them to such tedious tasks as watching grass grow and water run?
Favorites got the cool jobs: flaming swords, carrying the throne, singing in the choir. The rest of them sat on their butts, bored out of their eternity-encompassing minds. Resentment grew until there seemed to be no other option than revolt.
Maxwell had been the first to side with Lucifer. He was there when the Morning Star first proposed his concepts of experimentation and curiosity. The Multiverses were filled with delights that challenged even angelic minds. Instead of wild pleasures, though, Lucifer had managed to create never-ending rules and regulations.
He truly was evil incarnate. Worse, he was incompetent. The First was the ultimate liar, but he was best at lying to himself. He never realized that every plot of his failed.
Maxwell had managed to keep that piece of intelligence from his boss, too.
“I leave tonight to take over your Mina Harker contingency plan. I believe it is the one that will bring us the child, the vampire, and even return Soleil. I know you want to make an example of him.” Maxwell smiled pleasantly and turned off the speaking tube without saying good-bye.
Time to visit Victorian England. Of course, he needed recruits.
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Clipboard in hand, Maxwell roamed the rank halls of HQ. That little whiff of feces added a certain something to the splendor of the airport. After all, his people needed to have all their senses engaged in this job. Mercifully, he whistled an old Elvis Presley tune for their enjoyment.
Whispers of “management by walking around” followed him as he thoroughly inspected every single case file, every messenger bag, and asked penetrating, subtext-laden questions of every Rebel.
“How long have you been with us here?”
“What is your favorite part of working with the Rebellion?”
“On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your satisfaction with your managers?”
“If you had five black socks, three blue, and four green socks, how many times would you need to reach into the drawer before you achieved a pair of the same color?”
For some strange reason, nobody liked that question. Maxwell shrugged and kept plugging away until he had a short list of potential coconspirators. Each one had the essential component: a history of attempting the labyrinth and only leaving when they had to be carried out. In other words, a death wish.
After he had gathered a bundle of information, he retired to his office. The cubicle walls, once his prison, now contained the records for his top-secret purpose: Project Altruism. Namely, get as many people out of Hell as he could, including himself.
Maxwell shoved piles of dead, dusty files off of his dented metal desk until they fell like plops of cow manure. He kicked off his horrendous shoes, pulled off his scratchy, wool socks, and with the wild nature of the true anarchist, wiggled his toes in newfound freedom.
This mission required special talent. He sorted and crossed off names until he decided on his final six. Any more, they would overwhelm Valerie, John, and Lance, and he needed them able to do their part in his scheme. Any fewer, and Lucifer would be suspicious.
Mina Harker's city house in her version of London used servants. Maxwell would take the place of her imaginary father, and his six hand-picked Rebels would take the place of servants. They wouldn't need gardeners, but yes, for housemaids, footmen, and a cook.
As the master of the household, he certainly would need his own valet. Maxwell ran a hand over his bristly face. His whiskers were perpetually in the itchy, growing-out phase. With a grin, he added a personal valet to his list.
Might as well die in comfort.
C
HAPTER
3
V
alerie had to flush the toilet three times before the nose-tightening odor of sulfur dissipated. That should send a proper message to Lucifer. Come after her? Meet human excrement. A sharp grin bared her currently blunt teeth. Was she funny or was she funny?
She swung her backpack onto her shoulder and flung open the door of her hotel room. Fresh clean air swept away the slight mildew scent. The improbable green of the Alpine meadow shimmered before her. The hotel lay nestled against a mountain that overlooked Lake Geneva. The deep blue of the long lake reflected the forests and rocks like a crazed mirror. Valerie could well believe cities and people lived underneath its cold waters. No wonder so many fairy tales were set in Switzerland.
The broken door to her room dropped to the ground, encouraging her to leave its shady protection. The high-altitude sunshine in Switzerland pierced her like an angel's aura. Another bizarre manifestation of her new status? She could tolerate sunlight. In fact, she downright enjoyed it.
Valerie dropped her sunglasses down the crown of her head over her still-sensitive eyes.
Who had ever heard of a solar-powered vampire?
The shiny black Shelby carried the few remainders of her life before the pregnancy. She popped the trunk and laid her computer bag next to the enormous bearskin rug from her bed in Castle Dracul. Her viola. A mini-arsenal. A duffel full of clothes and money. Now, she had one more addition to her portable life. Her hands lingered on the backpack; inside lay a thin laptop computer to aid in her research into what she had become. Currently, she was a fixture at every ancient archive and forgotten library across Europe since Lance had disappeared.
Amsterdam had been useful. Their history of religious tolerance and world trade yielded archives full of unusual information. Her friends, Glenath Tempesta and Anthony O'Neill, a former bishop married to a vampire, had helped her gain copies of the brittle texts. Glenath's international reputation as a crusader for paranormal citizens' rights opened doors that might not have allowed Valerie, an anonymous woman, access to the most secret of documents.
Valerie's grin faded. There were a paucity of sources on what a pregnant, sun-worshipping, food-eating but nevertheless blood-drinking, thirty-second-mile running freak with fangs was called. She wiped away a drop of blood-pink sweat from her neck. Her friends had stayed behind in Amsterdam, that wonderful city ringed by water, to enjoy a long-delayed honeymoon, while the vampire continued her search in Switzerland.
Valerie closed the trunk and rested against Ilona's warm metal. Damn it, change was exhausting. How many things had she been? First, born a girl, but named Vlad Dracul and raised a boy. Then an undead. She twitched her black coat with the gold dragon around her shoulders. A well-dressed undead, at least.
Valerie continued her count. A soldier in search of a worthy leader, unwisely investing her talents under Napoleon and Germany, as well. After faking her own death and giving herself a new name, she had become an avenger to those lost in the death camps.
Bringing her to meeting one Lance Soleil. The former Fallen Angel who ripped open her past and made her believe in hope again.
Today, she carried a baby and she didn't know what to do about it.
“Stay frosty, Mom”,
the child said in Valerie's inner ear.
“You're going to love this.”
Of course, she would have a chatty, optimistic kid. Inexplicably cheered, she patted her navel and unlocked the car door.
The wrinkled elf who owned the hotel finally emerged from the office, screaming about the damage. Valerie rested an arm on the car roof and waited as the shorter being chattered away in its incomprehensible language. The elf's formerly round cheeks swung back and forth as it poked the air near Valerie's thighs. Its drooping, pointed ears made it look like an indignant basset hound.
Wonderful. The owner had ignored Valerie's every request for pillows, sheets, towels, and roach traps, but wanted money to recompense for furniture that had already been broken and for stains that weren't visible.
She crossed her arms, waiting out the tirade.
The elf quieted, glancing uncertainly at Valerie's set face.
“For your own sake, burn the place down. It's a pit.” She dug in her pants side pocket and pulled out a small red box. “Here's a match.”
With an incoherent shout of joy, the elf snatched the matchbox and pranced back to its hotel. Elves loved setting things on fire.
At the first red bloom of flame, Valerie furrowed her brow. What was with her fascination with cheap lodgings? She had enough money to stay at nicer places. Someplace where the pipes didn't drip rust the color of dried blood.
Mmm, blood. Her stomach rumbled in hunger.
The leather seats creaked around her body as she settled into the driver's seat of her black car. She could have drained the Fallen. His blood would have strengthened her, increased her powers.
The baby rumbled around in her uterus, practicing kicks. It seemed content and lively with their current diet of animal blood and the occasional solid food. But Valerie hungered for more. Ever since she had tasted Lance's hot, spicy blood and John Janté's apple sweet essence, nothing else satiated her. In fact, anyone else left her nauseous and disgusted.
Determined, she placed the key in the Shelby's ignition. The rumble of Ilona's engine comforted her. She'd owned this car since 1966. The power hidden under the hood had saved Valerie's life many times. The white Le Mans stripes had pointed her way for decades. What direction would she take now? What did she desire?
A vision of ice blue eyes and strong shoulders shivered her breasts. Though the physical memories of Lance's touch woke her from her sleep, he wasn't coming back. Valerie's sore heart was finished with searching for him.
John Janté, though, still lived on Earth. The useful mediums of modern communication had increased their connection. His words had become more and more erotic through the months, inviting her to play with him.
He was proud, sensual, wildly intelligent, and pragmatic. He knew her in a way no one in the world ever would again. Valerie squared her shoulders as though strapping on a sword. It was time to gather her courage and face what could be instead of being stuck in what was.
Valerie put Ilona in gear and peeled out of the gravel parking lot, sun-hot flames licking the sky behind her.